We've Got Tonight
by alaskalane
Summary: Because a drunken mind and a sober heart want the same kind of things, and nobody wants to be alone at a wedding.
1. Chapter 1

**shameless headcanon based off of the spoilers for the valentines day wedding. m for smut and language.**

* * *

Santana sat and stared directly ahead, her eyes glazing over and her face completely blank.

If anyone asked, she'd tell them she was a masochist and she was forcing herself to look at Berry's dress, because its crystalline netting and offensively bright black colours were both disgusting and serving as testament to the impermanence of most makeovers. Honestly, if Santana could be bothered, she would have told her that if she were taller she'd look exactly like a packet of Fruit Pastilles; but she couldn't, so instead she just sat on an uncomfortable white seat and spoke when spoken to.

There was no one remaining on their little designated table because the entertainment had begun, which was predictable – hello? Show choir – and she was just grateful she didn't have to sit and let their menial conversations wash over her while pretending to be listening and nodding her head like a robot while Quinn read her expression like a book and sat and snorted with laughter at her every fake smile. It wasn't like the people sucked. Quinn was her best friend; and she liked Rachel and Kurt, of course. If she were drunker she'd say she loved them, but she wasn't. And Rachel's dress really _was _offensive. She liked Mercedes and Blaine and Puckerman and the Changs, Sugar made her laugh and even Artie had stopped annoying her. She just didn't care about anything they were talking about.

All she really even nearly cared about was Sam's top hat perched on Brittany's head and their hands touching on the tablecloth; their legs linked under the table, the way Brittany gazed at same like he was her whole world.

She had told Brittany she wasn't in love with her anymore, and that of course she would be happy that she had moved on and found her blonde fucking soulmate. She gave them both a hug when she saw them and acted like instinct wasn't telling her to deck Sam and cut his hands off just for placing them on Brittany's lower back as they danced.

She didn't really know if she was still in love with Brittany, but it didn't matter anyway.

Well, it did matter, because the first cut is the deepest and now she could never ever _not _like Brittany; she had taught her how to love and what it was and how to care about people. But she knew she couldn't have her and she was ever-so-slowly coming to terms with it in her own way, sleeping with other girls without feeling guilty and coming back to Lima only for family purposes and not flicking through endless photographs of Brittany and Sam together on Facebook when she got home.

Letting go is just harder when the balloon is wound round and round your little finger, so tight it hurts, and you can't bear to sever it altogether.

She was just staring straight ahead because it meant she didn't have to focus on anything, so they could drift about in front of her and she would be none the wiser as to what they were doing. Brittany and Sam, Kurt and Blaine, boy and girl Chang, Artie and Sugar, Lumps and Rachel, Will and Emma; they all whirled around, giggling and grinning and being disgustingly in love with one another, and it pissed her off. She wasn't lonely or unhappy, not really. Just right now, she was sat alone and vaguely irritated and she really would rather be anywhere else; so yeah, she wasn't exactly over the moon.

Quinn was at the bar with her own lovers, the bottles of wine and whiskey and white Russians; Santana sighed out loud. Quinn was leant over the counter-top, whispering into the barman's ear, playing with his tie and rubbing her hand up his arm. Fuck, Santana thought. She really is into the older men. She was also shamelessly sticking her chest and ass out, and Santana took a small mercy from the fact Quinn had a very nice ass and as an out-and-proud lesbian she could ogle as much as she wanted.

Quinn would probably be glad she cheered Santana up, if she gave a shit.

Whatever. Santana sighed again and clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes fixed on a point way beyond Brittany, or Quinn, or Rachel's dress, or this room, town, state, country, world; her mind popping with various excuses for her inevitable early departure and means by which she was going to get home.

* * *

There's a banging behind her a few minutes later, and a heavy hand is placed on her shoulder, spinning her round.

It's Quinn, and she stinks of spirits already. "Get off me, Q," Santana says, with little conviction, and Quinn simply brings her head clumsily beside Santana's own and starts whispering.

"Hey, Santana. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. He –"

"Shut up, you rat." Santana rolls her eyes and Quinn plants herself onto her lap, hooking her arms around Santana's neck and banging their foreheads together.

"This pretty much fucking sucks, right?" Quinn says, her voice low and her eyes dancing with laughter. Santana nods, and Quinn pauses a little before continuing. "We should totally…get the fuck…out of here, right?"

"To where?"

Quinn ignores the question. "Put your hand up my top," she says, grinning wickedly and taking Santana's face in her palm, guiding her widening eyes to rest on the ruched fabric of her own dress.

Santana's mouth drops open. "Quinn, what are you – fuck, what are you doing?"

Quinn grabs Santana's hand and tugs it roughly toward her body, where it collides with a thunk against a glass bottle.

Her blonde hair flying back, Quinn bursts out laughing at Santana's expression. "The man gave me a bottle of 300ml vodka all for free because I tried explaining that this was really boring and you were really sad and I told him that we would meet him after this all finished…" she says, her words tumbling out of her mouth and making Santana smile tiredly. Emma had instructed that this was to be an entirely legal affair, and those who were underage were not to have any more than a glass of champagne. She had to admit that everything was always a lot better when she was drunk, and maybe Quinn did give a fuck.

"Well –" she begins, but Quinn presses her hand against Santana's lips and shushes her, pulling her off of her chair and grasping her wrist with pinching fingers, forcing her to her feet.

"Come on, Ana. We're going exploring!" she almost shouts, stumbling off and out of the function room, dragging a laughing Santana behind her. "Where's the motherfucking stairs in this hotel, ay? Three hundred dollars a fucking night and there's not even a fucking staircase!" she yells, whooping and shrieking and laughing in the entirely non-self-conscious way only an incredibly drunk person can.

"Quinn, shut up! You're off it," Santana drags her backwards, trying to stop their two bodies careering haphazardly down the hallway, trying to control Quinn's limbs which flail about in search of an elusive staircase.

"And you should be too," Quinn declares, wheeling round and whipping up her dress, retrieving a bottle of vodka and pressing it into Santana's open hands. "Neck, neck, neck, neck –" she cheers, clapping her hands so loudly and obnoxiously that Santana brings the bottle to her lips and takes several large gulps, wrinkling her face in disgust soon after. Quinn shrieks again, louder, her impossibly high-pitched words sounding a little like 'no fucking chaser! There's my homegirl'. Quinn always swore like a sailor when she was drunk.

Santana just grimaces, taking another few gulps and shaking her head fast, like that would help with the taste. "Shut up," she tries, but it's a weak attempt at assertiveness and she ends up almost collapsing with giggles as Quinn almost knocks a very large and very expensive looking glass vase over at the end of the corridor.

They don't talk for a while; they just laugh and pull each other along and shush each other hysterically, and Santana feels like she's been punched in the face by the feeling of 'very drunk' and she can't walk in a straight line. But she isn't sad anymore, and that's good.

Quinn stumbles to a huge and heavy wooden door and stops with a decisive nod of her head. "Yes," she says, stamping her foot and pouting at the door, willing it open.

"Yes." Santana joins her, and they both stare steadfastly at the door, before bursting into peals of laughter so intense that Santana feels tears spring to her eyes as she clutches Quinn for support.

"We shall have to break it down," Quinn announces with another firm nod and three very long and deliberate steps backwards.

"Oh, why yes. Of course."

And so they link arms and run shoulder to shoulder straight into the door and they bounce simultaneously off the mahogany and down to the ground in two skinny, shaking, entwined lumps.

Quinn leans against the door and blows a large raspberry and throws her arm above her head; Santana's legs almost wrapping around her waist as she fixes her hazy green eyes on a doorhandle looming straight beyond her.

"Oh!" she exclaims, tugging it and tumbling on her side through the door and into a big dark room.

"Oh," Santana breathes behind her, getting to her feet and taking ginger steps through the cold, empty space. "Wow. Way cool. I feel like a wizard."

The door swings shut and they clasp hands instinctively, the room illuminated by only a crack of light from the doorway.

Quinn nods sincerely, taking steps like a newborn deer. "Yes, so do I. I think we should hide, in case they come and get us."

"Hide where?"

"Under the table." Quinn points at the only piece of furniture in the otherwise bare room, a polished oak dining table meant for a dozen with a white tablecloth hanging over the sides.

"Oh, yes!" Santana beams and Quinn lets out a tiny whoop as the two of them crumple into identical and tangled heaps underneath the hard wood, banging their heads in synchronicity and groaning with pain.

"Oh, fucking fuck fuckity fuck. Quinn…" Santana whines, rubbing ruefully at the bump on her forehead. "Hurts."

"More drink?"

"Oh, yeah."

"For the pain?" Quinn questions, her eyes burning brightly.

"Oh, fucking yeah," Santana almost spits, their gazes meeting in the darkness as they straighten up and face one another under the table, their bodies hunched over.

They take a couple of shots each out of the lid of the vodka bottle, shuddering but feeling better as the liquid slides down their throats. Normally there would be someone looking after them, someone making sure they didn't get too drunk. But there isn't right now, everyone's busy with someone else and maybe when it comes down to it all Quinn really has is Santana and all Santana really has is Quinn, even if they're both a mess.

"So, Q," Santana starts, smacking her lips and taking Quinn's hand from where it lies between the two of them. "How goes it with Professor Pervert?" Before Quinn has the chance to respond, she claps her palm over her mouth, talking, but muffling her own voice. "Om. I am so sorry, I just don't like it, you know? I don't like the thought of you and some dirty old man because you're so young and beautiful and –"

"No! No, it's ok-ay. I hate him too," Quinn mumbles, running her hands through her hair and biting her lip. "He's a dick, and not even like nearly divorced at all because his wife is pregnant and it kind of makes me want to die a little bit –"

"No –"

"And he hasn't got the message yet, like he keeps making me stay behind and then he tries to go to the couch with me and I'm like 'fuck off, Jonathon, I don't like you anymore' but he keeps making moves on me…"

Santana's fists clench of their own accord and she bites her own lip out of agitation. "Do I need to come and fuck him up?" she slurs, completely seriously.

"No, I can so deal with it. I'm all like 'no more destructive relationships for me!' and he slinks off. You probably have to deal with some bullshit like that, though, because of all your frat parties and all of that, and you're gorgeous so, like…" Quinn trails off, flinging her hands around to try and indicate what she means.

Santana swallows, and shakes her head. "No. I mean yeah, but no, kind of. Like, yeah. Sort of. They could be a bit handsy like in the clubs and that, but it's not so bad when you're me because I am a Hot Latina and I can be totally fierce." She pauses and looks at a point over Quinn's shoulder, thinking. "I'm happy I'm leaving though, you know? Not in a rude way but so many people at Louisville are really, really stupid, like you know how you always used to make me read all that fucking poetry and we used to sit and translate that Pablo Neruda? They don't know who Pablo Neruda is…like, these people probably don't even think Chile is a real place…"

"Wait," Quinn's head snaps up, "you're leaving Louisville? You never told me," she says, affronted, her voice rising.

Santana laughs, hollowly. "Come on, Q. It was going to happen eventually. I don't belong, like. I was flunking all my classes because I didn't give a shit, I was training like three hours a day, and I liked about four people. I just don't want to make a big deal of it."

"Where are you going to go?"

Santana laughs again, and it's even emptier and Quinn winces at the sound. "I don't have a fucking clue, Quinn."

"Ana…" Hazel eyes blinking rapidly, Quinn tries to offer a little sympathy.

"Everything really kind of blows at the moment, right?"

Quinn nods, subdued.

"Fuck it. Have you got a light? I am going…to set this next shot on fire, and drink it, and see if I burst into flames." Santana sticks her chin in the air and folds her arms – after a few attempts – her face sloppily set and defiant.

Quinn's features fall, and she looks utterly dejected. "You can't do that," she says sadly, her eyes misting over. "You'd die. And your intestines and shit would go all over me, and I'm not about that."

Santana relents with a sigh. "You're right. I want to burn some anyway. I promise I won't drink it."

"Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise." Santana smiles when Quinn hands her a little zippo, and she waves it about in the air between them, having seemingly lost the capacity to move enough to open the vodka bottle. Probably a blessing in disguise. "You still smoke then, Q?"

"I'm an Artiste. Name me a famous poet who doesn't smoke," Quinn retorts defensively, hunching her shoulders and pouting.

"I'm not like, having a go, Quinn... I smoke, you know that. Rachel didn't know though, and she was almost like 'oh you're a walking toxin, you can't live with me anymore', so I promised I'd quit." Both of them chuckle knowingly, amicably. "I thought you only did it because of the whole like, skank, thing?" Santana raises a probing eyebrow.

This subject is unchartered territory between the two of them. "I don't know. I don't know what that skank thing _was_, I still don't, you know? I thought it was because I was all trying to find myself and everything but I was just so confused… I think I still am…"

Santana nods supportively and draws patterns on the flat of Quinn's knee. "Nothing's changed?"

"Not really," Quinn says, and it's like the first time she's ever said it out loud. "No. Nothing's really changed. I'm still scared and I still don't know what to do, not really, even though I'm kind of on a path it feels like it's super slippery and something could knock me off any second. I don't know who I am, and it's scary…"

"You know, don't worry about it?" Santana takes a swig of vodka and sets it down with a thump. "You think too much Q, you always have. Nobody really knows who they are. If you could just sort of let go a little and just ride the wave, you'd go a lot faster and it would be a lot less bumpy. You could do tricks and shit as well, if you believe you can. You can just do it, you can, and it's always made me jealous. You don't always have to know what's going on, just that it's going on, and you're in it. Does that make sense?" Her speech is slow and stuttery and she's slurring, but Quinn is nodding ardently and smiling slightly and she thinks it's worked. "One thing has changed, actually. Well, a lot of things, but one big thing…"

"What?"

"You don't have the pink hair anymore," Santana winks. "It's a shame; I always thought it was hot. I kind of wanted to bang you a little bit when you came in on the first day –" she claps her hands over her mouth again, and Quinn descends into a fit of giggles.

"It's okay, I know it was totally hot. I got my ironic tattoo of Ryan Seacrest lasered off, though…my mom paid…"

"I'm sad to see it go," Santana says frankly, patting Quinn's knee. The touch is clumsy and sloppy but it's almost sparking with something else, and Santana keeps her palm there because it's the nice kind of heat; not the kind that lights and gets hot too quickly and leaves your hand stinging like a bitch.

"Man, those were some dark days." Quinn sighs nostalgically and places her hand over Santana's, like it feels natural to. They're drunk. "Remember high school?"

Santana spits her laugh out and it sets Quinn off too, and they fall against one another, shaking and clutching at the other's dress and arms and legs.

When they've quite finished laughing the past four years of tribulations and tears and fights away, Santana wipes at the corners of her eyes and starts speaking completely openly. "I don't know why Brittany's trying so hard to hold on to it. It wasn't very nice."

Quinn opens her mouth to interrupt, but Santana tugs at her bottom lip and her words die in her throat.

"Well, it wasn't very nice for me. The only good bit for me was her, really, and Glee, and it's kind of like the opposite with her, you know?" She swallows, and Quinn dips her gaze. "She's not stupid. Like, at all. I was actually…so shocked when she said she wasn't graduating, like I know she doesn't like tests and stuff, but even fucking Puckerman managed to pass stuff and he's just plain thick. Brittany just thinks about things differently. I don't think she really wanted to grow up. Imagine her choosing a college, or -"

"Yeah –" Quinn starts, but Santana brings her left hand up to Quinn's mouth just as fast and Quinn finds herself stopping short, again.

"I think she didn't want to grow up and be with me," Santana finishes flatly, trying to keep her face hard and strong. "Well, not just me. She just wanted to stay again and again in high school where she could be on the cheerleading team and have continual month or so relationships and just sort of float around in a world where nothing really matters and she doesn't have to eat Pot Noodle every night because she can't afford a tin of macaroni and cheese… I think she's scared of it, growing up, responsibility, and all I did was –"

"Remind her of the fact it's inevitable."

Santana makes a strangled coughing sound, and nods her head. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess. And that makes me think that she meant more to me than I did to her."

There's a split second of silence.

"How are you holding up?"

It's not like they haven't spoken about it, quite the opposite; but Santana was still hard to read and reluctant to say things out loud (remembering what exactly the sin was) and it just sort of sucked unless she was in the mood to talk or she was drunk. And right now, she was both, so Quinn asked again.

"Uh, I'm okay, actually. Like, I'm kind of okay with her and Sam now. I wouldn't say I _like _it, but who likes seeing an ex with someone else?" She lets out a huge sigh and looks down, her hair falling in her face. Quinn brushes it back behind her ears, the gesture surprisingly tender. "I just don't get it. Am I her best friend like we were never together, am I her friend who's her ex, or am I just like, her ex, or just shit? It fucks with my head…"

Quinn takes Santana's face and forces her to look at her, both of their eyes spinning a little with the copious amount of drink in their systems. "You are my bestest friend and we will always be no matter what. So even if you're just shit to Brittany – which you even know you're not – you're always my very best friend, and I'll always be there. Sat under a table, necking cheap vodka…you get me, right?"

It's just a turn of phrase, but Santana is getting a little emotional.

"Yeah, you _get _me. We're like the same screwed-up neurotic crazy-ass person." She smiles weakly, and Quinn chucks her under the chin, their bodies incredibly close, the heat radiating underneath the table. "Are you a…strident lesbian too?" she asks, half-joking.

Panic flashes across Quinn's features, and a filter-free Santana bursts out laughing.

"For real, Quinn?" she whoops, bouncing up and down on her ass and banging her head a few times against the wood above her. At least she's amused. When Quinn refuses to answer and looks pointedly away from Santana, the brunette decides it's time and appropriate to launch her body into wherever Quinn's eyeline is.

And Quinn tries to stop herself from smiling and she tries her very hardest to ignore Santana as she flops and lollopes around, crashing into Quinn and the table legs and her own legs and giggling so annoyingly yet beautifully; but it's pretty much impossible.

She makes the mistake of looking at Santana and before she knows it she's been leapt upon and suddenly her best friend is straddling her waist, pinning her wrists to the ground and she can feel Santana's heavy breaths, hot against her cheeks.

Santana is grinning in a way that should be illegal, her eyes sparkling and her wiry frame completely trapping Quinn's on the ground so she lies completely helpless. Quinn wriggles beneath Santana, trying desperately to keep a straight face and look pissed off and free herself from the grasp Santana has on both of her arms.

"Santana! Get off!" she squeaks, shutting her eyes and trying to arch her back off of the thick dark carpet. Their bodies rub together and Quinn's panic increases because this is Santana, hello? and they've always playfought and woken each other up with forehead slaps and wrestled one another for the best bed and stuff but Quinn has never felt it was quite so heated.

"Tell me, bitch!" Santana bites, still grinning, totally unaware. Well, kind of. Quinn's face is flushed and her hair beautifully kinked and Santana reasons with herself that it's okay to be a little turned on because somebody would have to be one hundred and ten percent gay male _not _to be when they listen to Quinn's breath catch like that and when they feel her body rushing beneath them.

Quinn shuts her eyes, fast. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Santana shakes her, roughly and gently at the same time and Quinn squeals more, a choked 'get off, dick' echoing around the space around them.

"Oh…my…god!" Santana shouts suddenly, her head shooting up and thumping hard against the table again as a revelation hits her. "Ow, fuck. Q, that's your fault. Bitch." Quinn giggles. "Anyway…what was it you did at Jodie Foster's clambake, again?"

"Fuck," Quinn says out loud, shutting her eyes again and trying to wish she was somewhere else. But her mind is clouded and running away from her and her mouth just _goes_ without her permission. "I didn't do anything, you know, it's just like… a sorority…

"A lesbian sorority –" Santana interrupts, stilling herself and just staring down at Quinn, smirking, devilishly. "You know you can tell me anything, Q. Especially this. I'm capital G gay. I've turned like forty hundred girls at Louisville away from their meathead boyfriends…"

Quinn shakes her head frantically, her hair spreading about like a halo.

"Come on, Q," Santana says, softer this time, and Quinn opens her eyes to see her gazing down at her with only a ghost of a smile and not a hint of that patented slightly sarcastic malice and no perfectly arched raised eyebrows. "Come on, I get it, you know… I totally get it…"

Quinn gives up. "I'm so…confused, you know? I don't know if I'm _off _men, or _on _women."

Santana relaxes so she's sat on Quinn's lower stomach, clueless. "I feel you. You still like men?" It's not a statement, it's a question; and it's one that has been lingering in the back of Santana's mind for the past two years, at least.

"I don't know," Quinn whines, pouting, sticking out her bottom lip. "Help."

"Have you ever been romantically or sexually obsessed with…Rachel Berry?"

Quinn gasps, her face flashing dangerously, but to Santana's relief, she giggles. "Are you fucking with me?" she says simply, still chuckling. "She's straight as they come. I don't do unrequited love…like, where there's no chance…"

It's like her words are dripping.

"So do you feel like that with any other girls?"

"I don't know!" Quinn whines again, jerking her legs up and down agitatedly and forgetting Santana's placement on her body for a few – long – seconds. Shit.

"Have you ever been with one?" Santana asks plainly, her brow furrowing. "Magical… soft lips…" she mumbles, trying to sing because Quinn looks sad.

"No, but –"

"You're into one?"

"Not one. Like, all of them. Loads of girls. The whole goddamn softball team." Quinn moans and Santana lets her wrists go so Quinn can cover her reddening face with her hands.

Santana smiles, raising an entirely non-condescending eyebrow. "Softball? Really?"

Quinn groans, loudly, peeping a hazel eye out and looking straight up at Santana's genuinely affectionate face.

"Hey, I'm not being rude… I guess I'm just a sucker for cheerleaders, that's all..."

"Them too," Quinn laments, framing her own features with her hands. "All the girls… Like, is it just a sort of infatuation…thing? I'm not gay, right?"

"Uh, well –"

"Because I've always thought that sexuality works on like, a scale. So nobody can be properly straight straight or properly gay gay, like you can be almost entirely straight but still appreciate the form of your own gender, or you can be super gay and concede like 'yeah, he's hot'. So I'm probably _not_ gay... I don't think so, anyway."

Santana sighs, her mind not quite capable of decoding Quinn's words. "It's just girls, right? They're just so, like…hot?"

"Their hair, they have such nice hair. It's always clean as well. And it always smells nice."

"Yeah, they always smell nice…"

"And they're always clean!" Quinn almost cries, her body tensing again under Santana.

"Yeah, the clean thing…"

"And they don't have super horrible hairy legs. Well, most of them don't."

"They have tits." Santana nods her head firmly, prioritising.

"They're all curvy. I never know where to look, so I pretend not to."

"I think I'm a leg girl."

"It's the asses for me." Quinn darts a look to the side in thought.

"Oh, yeah. And girls are five hundred times better at everything sex."

"Everything sex?"

"They know what a girl wants, you know… Fuck, do they..." Santana sighs wistfully and gazes at a point beyond Quinn's head, shuffling her body unconsciously on top of Quinn's.

"Are they better kissers?"

Santana snorts derisively. "What do you think?"

She leans back, cocky, swaying slightly with her intoxication.

And then she's knocked further back by the crash of Quinn's lips against her own, hot and tangy and new. And everything she had imagined, and more. Their positions shift and suddenly Santana is sat on the floor with Quinn's legs wrapped around her waist and Quinn's hands tangled in her hair and Quinn's tongue pressing fervently against her mouth.

Quinn Fabray is sat under a table, drunk off her ass, kissing Santana Lopez like she needs it to survive.

And Santana Lopez is kissing her straight back, her hands flat on Quinn's back, pulling her ever nearer.

When they break away, the air is heavy with deep breaths and confusion and passion.

"What –"

"Show me," Quinn commands, her voice low and urgent, her eyes wild, her focus slipping. "I want you."

"Show you…"

Quinn grabs the straps of Santana's dress and lets her own body fall to the floor, bringing Santana over her. "Show me how girls do it," she says, her tone deep and imposing.

Santana has her legs either side of Quinn's body, and she is fixated by the rise and fall of her chest and the doubts crossing her mind. "You sound like you're from a bad porno," she complains shortly, chuckling yet running her hands up and down Quinn's arms all the same.

Quinn grimaces. "I'm drunk," she offers as an explanation, swinging chaotically at Santana's back and willing her to come closer.

Santana pauses. "Yeah, you are… Are you sure?"

"More than anything, ever… It won't be weird because it would just be like one friend helping out another friend, you know? And let's face it, we're both –"

Santana cuts her off, her mind reeling. "But this isn't what we do," she says, with a frown. "This isn't insulting each other and bitching out and pretending not to care but caring a fuckload because we're like, best friends for life… This is sex."

Quinn shrugs, bemusement and hurt crossing her features momentarily. "Do you not –"

"Fuck, no. I just…" she sighs, "we're so complicated."

"Don't you love it?"

She does, so she nods, and when Quinn grabs her shoulders and hooks her legs around her own, Santana doesn't complain.

Quinn doesn't complain when Santana starts blazing a slow trail of kisses down her neck, sucking and biting, leaving bruises wherever she wants to. She lets her arms rise so they're lying behind her head and lets Santana's fingers light up every inch of her skin they touch, something stirring deep within her when Santana lets them linger on her sharp hip bones, drawing absent-minded circles.

"Okay?" she whispers in Quinn's ear, and Quinn is incapable of responding; Santana's nails scratch on her inner thighs and she can feel them hook around her underwear, stroking yet digging in a little too hard as they slide them off.

So Santana drags her slim form up and kisses Quinn slowly but surely, her tongue pushing into Quinn's mouth and tasting like vodka and lust, and her hand teasing around Quinn's clit before her fingers push inside Quinn and the blonde can only gasp.

It's not like Quinn's a virgin – no, not at all – but as she bucks and thrusts her body unknowingly under Santana's; as Santana's fingers move deftly and skilfully affecting her in a way she never thought possible; as Santana bites down hard on her neck and traces her tongue along her neck, she can't help her eyes rolling in her head with something akin to a euphoria she has never felt before.

"Fuck –" she almost screams already, Santana's other hand rolling around her right breast and circling the nipple, hard; nearly sending her into overdrive. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck…"

She's so drunk and everything feels so perfect, her whole body set alight by the touch of the girl poised over her body. Her hands fly down of their own accord, and they knot in Santana's long dark tresses before she can even begin to even try and control herself.

"Yeah?" Santana breathes, biting down again on the pale, exposed and unblemished skin of Quinn's chest. She's lost, too, losing it a little more with every push Quinn makes up against her.

"Ana –" Quinn says, her voice breaking with desire, pulling Santana's head down her own body by her hair and leaning up on one arm so she can _see._

It's slow, to start with. Santana teases, nipping lightly around Quinn's inner thighs and suddenly pulling away so she's looking up at Quinn but not touching her. Torturing her instead, her eyes black, and wild, and drunk. Drunk on _everything._

Quinn cries out, begging, the sound strangled and melodic at the same time.

Santana hooks her arms under Quinn's body and pulls herself up to lie flat on top of her, whispering hotly in her ear. "Say it," she purrs, crouched over Quinn like a cat ready to pounce. Quinn won't. She shuts her eyes and her mouth and tries to pretend.

"Say it," Santana growls this time, louder and more forceful; laying a hand behind her and sliding it down Quinn's stomach because Quinn is powerless and Santana knows exactly how she's feeling. Like there's a burning deep inside and her touch is the only thing that could cool Quinn down and offer both a reprieve and unknowable pleasure.

Quinn opens her eyes.

"Say it." Maybe it's just the way they work, and they always will. It's a competition, and Santana is winning.

"Please, Santana –"

Santana wastes no time because even though she's wasted she knows exactly what she's doing; starting with slow, sensuous kisses and sucks and bites. Quinn imagines she's the one with ascendency but she's not and she realises it when all the muscles in her arms wither with a particularly deft and beautiful flick of Santana's tongue, the vibrations from her moans sending Quinn close to the edge. She tries to count to one hundred in her head but she only reaches fifty three before the pressure within her builds up to its highest point and she screams with pure, unadulterated ecstasy; her body shaking and trembling as she lets go and her head thumps against the carpet in exhaustion.

"Oh my god." She untangles her fingers from Santana's hair and smooths it down, her face peaceful, swimming with bliss; her sighs heavenly. "Thank you…" she mumbles, still smiling.

Santana licks her lips and rolls heavily off of Quinn, uncapping the vodka as she does so, gulping it down and discarding the bottle to lie beside Quinn and watch as their chests rise and fall in sync.

They stare up at the underside of the table, and Quinn takes Santana's hand.

"It's sure as hell not the same as gazing up at the stars." Santana breaks her silence after a few minutes, her eyes strangely blank as she looks up above her.

"Yeah," Quinn agrees, squeezing Santana's hand and smiling aimlessly. Santana smiles too, so the two of them are lying side by side and grinning up at the dark polished wood of an oak dining table. "We could look at the stars…if we wanted to…"

"Stars," Santana repeats, breathing heavily.

The silence hangs between the two of them for a few more minutes, as they imagine bright white lights and the odd shining moon.

"So…" Santana begins, the word coming out slurred and elongated. "Are you a les, or what?"

Quinn props herself up on her right elbow, and Santana mirrors her, blinking rapidly in anticipation. "Something like that," the blonde says coyly, and Santana aims to plant a kiss on her forehead. She misses, but the thought is there.

"I'm proud of you."

Quinn grins, widely and genuinely. "Thank you," she sings, her voice cracking on the end of her high note. Santana giggles, happy.

"Come on, loser," Santana says, taking their vodka bottle and rolling over like a pencil and slithering ass-first out of the darkness under the table into the relative darkness of the room. "Watch your head…"

She grabs Quinn's hand as they both trip to their feet and push the door open, blinking in the bright lights of the hallway. "Where are we even going?" Quinn winces, rubbing her eyes and staring reproachfully at Santana.

"Stars," Santana says, swaying as she begins a purposeful walk down the corridor, smashing head-first into the closed doors of the lift. "Found the lift!" she bursts out laughing again and so does Quinn, and they stumble inside and climb the ten or so floors to the top of the building.

"It's…beautiful…" Quinn breathes when they reach the top, and she flings her arms out wide over the never-ending space around her.

Santana snorts with laughter and sets herself down laboriously. "No, it's not. It's Lima."

Quinn blinks with reproach again, and a giggling Santana tugs her down to sit beside her.

"Sorry, Fabray." They lie back and stare up, ignoring the cold and the feeling of their hearts beating in their heads. "The only good thing about this place is that you can actually see the stars."

"Yeah?" Quinn burbles, the rest of her sentence unintelligible. She's still flying on a few different highs.

"The problem…with the fast city living," she pauses dramatically, "is that you can never see the stars."

Quinn crows. "Shit, that's profound."

"Fuck off, yeah? I'm not trying to be deep. I mean, like…light pollution."

"Fine."

They bicker and talk and drink and gaze up at the stars.

* * *

Quinn leans over to Santana and whispers something lowly in her ear, crossing her legs.

"You what, Q?" Santana can't hear her.

She tries to whisper again but Santana still can't make it out, so she slaps Quinn lightly on the cheek and tells her to 'get a fucking grip'.

"I left my underwear downstairs…" Quinn eventually says, blushing and looking away in drunken embarrassment.

Santana's mouth drops open.

"…and it's kind of, breezy."

"Oh my _god_," Santana screams, and she begins laughing so hysterically tears come pouring down her cheeks. "Oh my fucking god, Quinn Fabray has a breeze up her vagina!" she cries, sitting up and pounding her fists against the cold hard ground. "Quinn Fabray is freezing her –"

"Shut up!" Quinn shouts, elbowing Santana and trying not to laugh.

She relents, eventually; the two of them laugh uproariously and raucously, rolling around and clutching their stomachs cartoon-like. The bottle crashes to the ground and shatters all over everywhere, but neither of them really care.

Quinn bowls over on to her back and giggles weakly, shutting her eyes and letting her hair fall over her face.

Santana suddenly stops laughing, only the odd muffled sound escaping her lips. Quinn hears her stumble to her feet and cracks open her hazel eyes, only to have them assaulted by a bright white light. She groans and covers them with her hands, causing Santana to have to repress another bout of giggles.

"Miss?" a man clad in a blue bellhops suit bends down and shakes her shoulder, looking both concerned and annoyed. "Miss?" he tries again, and she reluctantly takes his hand and shakily gets to her feet. "You can't be up here. You're causing a disturbance."

"We could not be more sorry…" Santana says, sounding like she really couldn't be less sorry.

"More sorry," Quinn echoes, and they stand shoulder to shoulder facing their intruder, their best head-bitch faces on. As best as they can muster after a third of vodka.

He narrows his eyes. "Look, are you even staying here?"

Santana gasps in mock offence, and peers at his nametag. "Yes, _Juan, _me and my friend are staying at this hotel. We're in town for a wedding, we'll have you know, and the bride has mafia connections. Oh, no; you don't want to piss one of her guests off. No, Juan, we wouldn't want that."

Quinn pinches her, hissing with laughter, any inhibitions vanishing long ago and still not presenting themselves.

Juan looks puzzled, shaking his head. "Whatever, lady. What's your name?" he asks Quinn, clearly irritated already with Santana.

"Rachel Berry," she replies, without missing a beat, her inebriation not even evident in her tone.

Juan sighs. "Right. And you?"

"I am Finn Hudson," Santana says, with a firm nod of her head, her face completely straight.

Juan goes to record it on his little hotel smartpad, but he pauses and looks up at Santana quizzically. "Wait, Finn?"

Santana nods.

"That's a boy's name, right?" He folds his arms. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Santana sighs, sounding completely and utterly exasperated. "My full name is Finnona. Like Winona, of Winona Ryder." She pauses, staring plainly at Juan. "It's Irish."

Juan rolls his eyes and taps some buttons on his console, frowning. "Right. Yes, I do have record of your booking. I'll have to just escort you to your room, and we'll see if matters progress any further in the morning. There were complaints, you know."

"Whatever, grumpus," Quinn says, and Santana blows a raspberry.

As they follow him down the hallway as unsteady as ever, Quinn hisses at Santana. "What if we go in and they're actually there…you know?"

Santana swallows, her mouth setting grimly. "That's what suicide pacts are for," she says seriously, and Quinn takes her hand. "They're probably in room 223 with the dancing gays…don't worry." Santana nods sincerely and Quinn believes her.

Even so, it's an immense relief when the room is empty and Juan places the keys in Quinn's hand, shaking his head and reminding them to be quiet before departing. Well, reminding Ms. Berry.

The first thing Santana does is shove Quinn backwards, shrieking at her. "Why was I Finn?" she shouts, grabbing the tea bags and little pots of milk and pelting them at Quinn, swearing in Spanish.

"Because," Quinn yells back through her laughter, "look at him!"

"What the fuck are you suggesting?" Santana screeches, her words almost too high to register. Her offence is almost physically palpable in the little room their voices are filling.

"Do you ever think he goes on top?" Quinn cries back, her face brazen and lighting up with verve.

Santana stops and opens her eyes to the whole room, peering round.

There's only one bed.

In the same time it takes for her to realise, she's lying on her back on top of it and Quinn is kissing her deeply, intensely, uncontrollably.

They've got tonight.

* * *

**review, tell me what y'all think, tell me what i should've done and whether or not i should do a morning-after oneshot. (!)  
i also had some pms about my other lil fic and putting links and stuff on tumblr things, and that's totally fine by me should anyone would want to. i should get on that tumblr thing, but i probably don't need any more excuses to fritter away my time so i probably shouldn't. (meaning i will, soon.)  
hope you liked!**


	2. Chapter 2

**because i am dreadful, and quinntana plagues my mind.**

* * *

Quinn doesn't know where she is, but wherever she is is spinning uncontrollably and smells of an almost tangible lust.

It's spinning, too bright, her head is hurting and her heart is beating in her stomach.

Her bra is digging into her chest. Where's her dress? What's that tiny lump next to her?

What happened?

She groans. "Oh, god…"

The vomit rises in her throat faster than she can get to her feet, so she just leans over the side of the bed and retches, trying desperately to hold it in her mouth so she can stumble to the bathroom and preferably smack her head off of the toilet seat and perhaps drown in the water beneath her. She feels absolutely awful.

There's a wastebin that someone has placed by the side of the bed and so she opens her lips and lets an improbable amount of alcohol and bacon back up, and she jumps when she feels a pair of warm, soft hands pushing her hair back and holding it behind her head, stroking her scalp and whispering gently.

"Oh, god…" Quinn mumbles again, leaning further over the bed and letting the hands guide her to a position directly over the bin. "Oh, god…"

Santana grins, sitting on her haunches and supporting Quinn's wracking body, suppressing a giggle because it's kind of pathetic. "Shhh, Q. Let it all out," she says lightly, flicking her own hair over her shoulder. She's dressed and showered, like always; she had never been one to lie around and marinade in a hangover or regrets.

"Oh, god…" Quinn leans up on one elbow and pushes her hand against her head, shaking and blinking when she recognises the voice of the woman behind her. She had wondered fleetingly in the few moments between waking up and throwing up what exactly she was lying beside, but she knew now. Santana was so small that Quinn could have pretended that it was just a couple of pillows, and she was really actually alone.

She knew now for certain that she wasn't.

"Oh, god," Quinn says once more, and Santana smiles, letting Quinn flop back onto the bed and cover her face with her hands. "Santana…"

Her features are torn and dropping and she moans again, her mind racing.

_So I've slept with Santana and oh my god, I've slept with Santana? Santana? We were really drunk and I know that because I feel like shit now but, what happened? What happened? Oh my god._

Santana just smile blithely again, laughing very lightly. "Alright, Q. Don't overdo it, I wouldn't want you to vom everywhere again." She runs her hands through her hair and smooths down her parka, biting her lip. "Right, I'm going to go out for a bit, get us some coffee and muffins and shit, okay?"

Quinn nods weakly.

"I've opened the window to clear your head, okay? Try and get up and have a shower."

Quinn closes her eyes and sighs, spread-eagled on the bed. "Uhhh…"

Santana looks at her with a genuine warmth reserved only for those whom she truly cares about, and takes a few purposeful steps toward Quinn lying under the covers. "Shh. We can talk when I'm back. Shh," she murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to Quinn's forehead and trailing her hand down her arm as she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and Quinn squeezes her eyelids together and settles for just lying back and feeling completely numb.

"What have I done?" she says out loud, to nobody. "What have I _done?_"

* * *

Santana shakes her head as she leaves their hotel room. Quinn could never handle her drink, and she's grateful for her drunken strike of genius in the small hours that was to place two wastebins directly in Quinn's vomit-line beside her – their – bed.

She slides her sunglasses on, and checks the time on her silver wristwatch. Twenty past nine, the morning after Valentine's Day. She shares the lift with a loved-up couple who stare into one another's eyes and suck one another's faces, and the walk through the hotel lobby makes her feel like she's in a zoo and she's examining how relationships should be working in all their different entities.

With a jaunty little wave to Kurt and Blaine who sit sharing a bucket of coffee and blinking behind their own dark glasses, she sets off out of the revolving door and feels the cold air hit her with a sense of relief.

She's not _avoiding _thinking of Quinn, per say. Whatever happened, happened; and they can talk about it when Quinn doesn't feel like there are a thousand little drumming men parading around her head and Santana doesn't feel like laughing at Quinn's doleful little whimpers. When they can take it seriously.

Santana wonders briefly what cage the two of them would fit into in her zoo of happy couples. Maybe it's something in their water or their food, maybe they're actively consuming complications and issues threatening to come between the two of them.

They've really topped themselves, sleeping together. They'd done everything but, and it did not disappoint.

'Insanely attractive blonde Prom-Queen type and breathtakingly gorgeous Fiery-Latina type share a tumultuous relationship and hot fucks originally based upon a shared rivalry/repressed sexual attraction, maturing only when they reach nineteen and drink an improbable amount of alcohol.'

She smirks and continues her walk to the nearest coffee shop, idly thinking up vaguely offensive synopsises for those she knows in relationships.

She's just about to begin Finn and Rachel's – the T-Rex and the Jew's – when something small and annoying tugs at her arm and she's forced to turn and face the latter, who's sporting one of Finn's hoodies and clutching one of his hands.

"Santana!" she yells, and Santana winces, plastering on a smile.

She might have showered and be up to walking around, but she's still hungover and Rachel's voice was enough to cut right through her sanity in ordinary circumstances.

"Yeah, Rach?"

For his part, Finn senses Santana's sore head and gives her a curt nod, attempting to pull Rachel along and away. But as always, Rachel is undeterred. "Where are you off to?" she asks brightly, bobbing alongside Santana and talking incredibly and overly fast.

"Joe's," is the response, simple and clipped.

Rachel positively beams. "Oh, well, we'll join you, won't we, Finn?"

Finn mumbles and Santana holds back a groan; instead smiling and nodding her head with a forced enthusiasm. Ouch. Maybe no more nodding.

Linking her arm through Santana's, Rachel continues raptly. "So, I hear you left early, huh?" She winks, and Santana feels something inside of her wither and die. "Do you want to give me a little clue as to…where to?"

Shit. Usually, Rachel doesn't pause for breath, let alone for enough time to elicit an actual response from whomever she's talking to (or berating, depending on who you ask).

Santana flounders. Right, of course. Make it up. "I had to take Quinn home. She wasn't feeling very well, so we caught a cab back to her moms and I sorted her out. When I got back to the hotel, the wedding had like, ended. I just went upstairs and had a bath." The lie slips easily from her tongue, and she knows that it's probably actually best to feed Rachel a few untruths. "What'd I miss?" she continues, knowing that Rachel has accepted her little story.

Rachel blushes, and Finn smiles lazily. "Oh, nothing much. Well, yeah, actually, you missed a bit. The wedding was over by the time you returned because Will and Emma had some huge blowout, and everyone just really wanted out of there. There was a load of confusion with the rooms, as well. Mine and Finn's key wouldn't work, so we were forced down to reception to sort it out, only to be told we had already checked in. I fear I am a victim of identity fraud."

Santana stifles a snort and attempts to nod sympathetically instead. She had almost forgotten they'd done that. "Wow, that's quite an ordeal. I hope you're okay," she says, her words dripping with sarcasm. Rachel slaps her lightly on the arm. "What was Will and Emma's fight about, then?"

Finn shifts from foot to foot, and Rachel shrugs animatedly and obliviously. "I'm not really sure…I was sort of…we were sort of, like…busy," she finishes lamely, and Santana wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"Gross, Berry."

Rachel giggles shrilly, the sound slicing right through Santana's ears. "Oh, come on, Santana. If we're going to be roommates, we need to be comfortable with the idea that both of us are sexually active. Like, we're going to be bringing people home and getting taken home and it's something I really think we should discuss, like do you think we should employ a door-hanger like policy or a –"

Santana spins on her heel and presses her finger to Rachel's lips. "I'm going to stop you right there, Rachel, before I'm unable to physically control my reaction to your words."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "And what is that?"

"I might just vomit all over you."

Rachel screws up her face, sniffing. Santana recoils. "You do actually stink of alcohol, Santana. Oh, yes. I wanted to let you know that while I'm not averse to a few drinks myself, I will not tolerate binging or the destruction of anything in my – our - apartment."

Santana groans, and the three of them enter the coffee shop. The smell makes Santana curl her toes a little, but then she remembers the wonders of coffee in curing hangovers and pushes herself forward, ordering two lattes and two bacon breakfast muffins.

"Hey," Rachel says in her ear, and Santana is tempted to swat her like a pesky fly. "How come you've ordered doubles?"

Santana blanches for a second before recovering herself easily and turning to Rachel with a bluff prepared. "I'm really fucking hungry, Rachel. That is why. I haven't eaten in two days because I couldn't afford a new dress for the wedding and it was from junior year."

Rachel takes a few steps backwards, and Santana smirks with satisfaction. "You're in a good mood," Rachel says after a few moments of silence, ordering a vegan brownie and a black coffee for herself. Finn lumbers in the background, looking at Rachel with adoration.

"A good mood?" Santana repeats incredulously, handing over her twenty dollars and flashing a winning smile at the girl behind the counter. "I don't –"

"Your insults lack the usual bite, and I can see your eyes crinkle beneath your glasses with affection and amusement." Rachel nods firmly and folds her arms. "You got some last night. I can tell. And did it…did it possibly…mean something?" she exclaims melodramatically, clasping her hands over her heart and winking.

Santana's mouth drops open and she shakes her head furtively. "I did not. I went to my hotel room alone, and…" she trails off, a wonderful idea to take some of the heat off of her popping into her head. "Well, maybe I did get some. If you know what I mean," she nudges Rachel and grins creepily, so that she might retreat and react with disgust and possibly stop talking. That's what any ordinary person would do.

She forgets Rachel isn't ordinary. "Oh, that's fine too, Santana. We've all been there. In fact, I've still not told Kurt what the padlocked drawer in my bedside table is, or why the batteries from the remote control keep going missing," she states matter-of-factly, smiling empathetically.

Santana blinks slowly, shaking her head and wanting more than anything to burst into flames. She's silenced. Rachel looks at her watch with complete and utter nonchalance. "Oh, is that the time?" She takes Finn by the hand, and starts pulling him away. "We must dash. Places to be, etcetera. I'll text you if it changes, but you should be at my dad's by ten tomorrow morning for the flight back, okay?"

Santana nods in disbelief, still stunned into silence, almost missing the barista calling out her name and placing hers and Quinn's coffees down on the surface behind her.

Her mind flits to Quinn as she exits the shop, and how Quinn's feeling.

She had never thought Quinn would be the type to gay panic. Her relationship with her God appeared to have failed and faltered over the past few years, and her relationship with her mother was as such Judy was just happy she was still alive. Quinn was always so calm and calculated in everything she did. Maybe sleeping with her own hot-lesbian-self wasn't part of Quinn's master plan.

Whatever it was, it was pretty amazing.

She had sex with Quinn Fabray.

Santana runs her hands through her hair again, and makes her strides a little more purposeful.

And it was good, and it felt good, and not just physically. So maybe she wasn't quite ready to serenade Quinn and drop to one knee with a ring, but maybe they could talk about it and maybe sort something out. Like Rachel said, it possibly maybe could have meant something.

If not, it was just one friend helping out another friend, and she got a couple of pretty intense orgasms out of it. It's a win-win, surely?

She still finds her feet taking her in the opposite direction to the hotel and (because it wasn't a complete lie to Rachel about buying doubles because she hadn't eaten) walks down to the lake; Quinn is waiting for her back at the hotel room and she would hate to walk in on her in the shower, or something, and she needs to plan what she's going to say.

Whatever confusions are rattling through her head, they're likely to be a thousand time louder in Quinn's.

Two cigarettes, coffees and breakfast muffins later she's on her way back, picking up some extra food for Quinn on the way, trying to compose herself.

What if Quinn said she wanted to go for it, that it meant something? She was in New Haven, and Santana was moving to New York.

What if she said it didn't mean anything?

Did it mean anything to Santana?

What if she said she wasn't even gay?

"Fuck," Santana spits out loud, her pace slowing as she approaches the hotel. "Fuck."

Words were never their strongpoint.

* * *

Quinn is sitting up in bed when Santana returns, throwing her small form ungracefully through the door, grumbling about cheap hinges.

"Hey," she says conversationally, bustling over with a bag of food in one hand and two coffees balancing precariously in the other. "I put a shit ton of syrup in your latte, because I thought you'd want the pick-up. And I brought the bacon, because I know what you're like." She smiles, handing Quinn the little paper bag and setting the coffee down on the bedside table. Quinn shies away from her touch a little, but Santana tries to ignore it.

"Thanks," Quinn says, unwrapping the muffin and trying to grin at Santana who is sat cross-legged across from her on the bed. It looks more like a wince, and Santana starts to play with her fingers, looking down.

She tries again. "So, no shower?"

Quinn shakes her head sadly, gazing over her own sprawling limbs with despondency. "Not really. I feel like moving would make my head start spinning, and it's only –"

"When your head's spinning that you want to vomit," Santana finishes her sentence with a chuckle. "I feel you. Just stay here all day."

"I'm definitely considering it," Quinn closes her eyes and exhales heavily, leaning her head back on the board behind her.

They sit in silence, Quinn nibbling at a bacon muffin and sipping a strong sweet latte, and Santana twirling an empty coffee cup between her hands.

It's not awkward, but it is heavy.

The kind of silence that's heavy with unsaid words and unspoken feelings, the kind that means more than its own emptiness. It's entirely alien for them because they've always been bouncing off one another, constantly bickering and talking and bitching, running out of time for the things they wanted to say.

Santana inhales sharply, and the sound prompts Quinn to open her eyes and stare. "Q, are you okay?" she asks simply, worriedly, finding Quinn's eyes.

"What do you –" Quinn begins, her tone tired and sad.

"You know what I mean," Santana cuts her off, her own voice rising a little.

Quinn swallows. "Right. I don't know…"

Something dark flashes in Santana's eyes, and Quinn has to break the fix of their stares. "For fuck's sake, Quinn."

"I'm sorry," Quinn replies, defeated.

Santana bounces on the bed, pouting and flapping her hands against the old mattress. "You know you can talk to me, right?" Her eyes widen sceptically. "Do you think you're the only one who's ever been confused?"

Quinn shakes her head.

"Because I've known I was a lesbian since freshman year, when I was more interested in your ass in gym than Puckerman's, okay? But we _both _know I couldn't get my shit together before halfway through fucking senior year, and I would've given _anything _for someone to be there telling me that it would be alright, that it was normal." She shakes her own head, her lip curling.

"I'm not…like you, Ana. You know that," Quinn attempts, curling her fingers into fists over the duvet. "I'm not even sure, I just…"

"You're not sure?" Santana raises an eyebrow, and Quinn tries to work out whether or not it's mocking or just disbelieving. It's probably both. "You seemed pretty sure last night." She can't resist the jab, her features hardening and regarding Quinn frostily.

Quinn drops her head, shutting her eyes, again.

Santana lowers her voice, taking the edge from her tone and shuffling awkwardly a little closer on the bed. "Look, Q. I just want to help you out, okay? I understand. We can sort this shit out, don't worry."

Quinn exhales deeply, staring up at the ceiling. It's spiral patterned and stained, cobwebs trailing down from the old lamp shade. Everything looks so different in the cold light of day. "Santana…" she trails off, clenching her fists further. "I think…I'm going to go, now."

Tears spring to Santana's eyes, and she blinks fiercely and reassures herself that it's just because she's maybe still a little bit drunk and she's always been emotional. She would be angry, but she doesn't have the energy. She lets her body flop down on the bed beside Quinn's, her whole body completely relaxed. Maybe she was just this _used _to being fucked over.

"If you want," she murmurs, fraying the cardboard of her old coffee cup between her fingers, trying to distract herself.

Quinn turns to her as they lie parallel, her face drawn and pensive. "What did this even mean, Ana?" she asks quietly, her head spinning and her eyes blurring. Before Santana can respond, she continues, "What did it mean, last night?"

"It was –"

"Fucking incredible, yeah," Quinn finishes, and they both smile weakly. "But it's just so…"

"Fucked up?" Santana offers, and Quinn nods forlornly. She could have said anything. Emotionally warped. Unhealthy. Confusing.

"Yeah. And were we just both sad, or lonely, or whatever?" It sounded better in her head.

Santana tenses but releases just a few seconds later. It can't be worth it. "Maybe. Whatever." She pauses, and draws in a long breath. "I should've known," she adds bitingly, bitterly, gazing up at the ceiling. A single tear trails down Quinn's cheek.

"Santana, it's not like that. I just…"

But Santana sighs so loudly it's enough to stop Quinn from speaking, and they lie in silence with their chests rising and falling in sync, their breath catching at the same time.

"I'm going to…go…" she murmurs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and getting unsteadily to her feet. Her voice sounds almost lifeless and wholly beaten.

"No, I'll go…" Santana mumbles, sitting up too. "You're not well. Or dressed."

"It's fine," Quinn says half-heartedly. "You've already been out…maybe the fresh air will do me good."

She literally stumbles over to the door and puts her shoes on the wrong feet, but Santana finds it hard to care.

"I'm going back to New Haven. I'll call you, okay?" Quinn pauses in the doorway, biting her lip. Her shoulders are hunched over and her hands dangle loosely by her sides.

"Yeah, okay."

The door closes and Santana lies back, placing her palms over her face and trying desperately not to burst into brash, ugly sobs as she's left, again.

Quinn dips into the bathroom on the third floor and vomits again, holding her own hair back and then continuing her miserable walk home as she runs away, again.

* * *

It's April, and the air in New Haven has lost a little of its bite and the trees are starting to grow heavy with tiny green buds.

Quinn is on her way home from a night out, her arms linked on either side by a fabulously gay art student and a giggling economics student who are both screamingly drunk and for whom she had agreed to spot for the evening.

They were both struggling out of messy break-ups, and they wanted to drink enough to forget and to (theoretically) not end up with any real regrets.

Quinn hasn't really drunk, not properly, not since Valentine's Day. She went out with them and watched them drink themselves into giddy stupors, stopping after one grey goose martini. She just needed to get them home and safe and then she could head back to own dorm, good deed for the month having been completed.

So she drops them off – they end up top and tailing on an uncomfortable futon because Quinn can't find two different blankets – and starts to head back to her own dorm, blowing rings with her hot breath in the cold air.

She takes the stairs two at a time, because she can, and she really wants to be at home and in bed. Swinging her keys out from her bag, she hums a little and bounces with a little spin full circle to her door, only then noticing a green-furred lump curled up on the ground beneath her.

"What the…" she breathes, blinking exaggeratedly. "What, the fuck?"

The lump is leant against the door, snoring gently on their own hood.

"Oh, my god…"

Quinn _knows _who it is, but she leans down to check their face anyway. It's Santana, her hair fluttering with her steady sleeping breaths. She hasn't seen her since Valentine's Day and they've spoken only a handful of times on the phone and exchanged only weekly emails.

Quinn kneels down and shakes her shoulder, bracing herself for an onslaught of insults and slurs in Spanish. Quinn remembers with a little smile that Santana always claimed her English didn't wake up until her first cup of coffee.

"Santana?" Quinn begins, pursing her lips. "Hey."

Santana opens her eyes a crack, wincing at the light from the cheap bulb in the hallway. "Hey yourself," she says croakily, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Fucking finally. How long are your nights out up here?"

Quinn runs a hand through her hair, her forehead furrowing as she notices Santana's small rucksack and the darkness of the skin around her eyes and the exhaustion behind them. "Did I miss something? Did we arrange this?" she says clumsily, taking Santana by the hand and guiding her to her feet. She's disorientated to say the least, and Quinn wonders how long she's been out there.

"Oh, no. I just wanted to see you," Santana replies stiffly, her face tight in the bright lights of the corridor as Quinn fumbles with the key and wordlessly nods. "Have you got any drinks, or weed, or something?" she says as she steps into the dorm, kicking off her shoes. Quinn follows, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Not really. My roommate gets sent this Wodka Zoladkowa stuff from her mom in Chicago, but I'm not allowed to touch it…" Quinn speaks warily, treading lightly around Santana's veneer of calm. "It's spiced. And I'm an English major, so we prefer magic mushrooms." She's joking, but the atmosphere is still thick and Santana seems to have brought with her an air of despondency.

"Oh." The response is quiet and pressed, and Quinn wonders exactly when the floodgates are going to open. Santana takes a few steps and stands in the middle of the room, like she doesn't know what to do with herself. She looks over the walls, taking in the bookshelves and the posters and the ornamental totem pole and staring with fascination.

Quinn decides to tempt fate, her martini perhaps doing a little of the talking. "What are you doing here, Ana?" She uses the old nickname softly, rolling the word around her tongue. Her eyes are gentle and open but not _too _gentle and open, because Santana hates feeling patronised even if she's not actually _being _patronised.

"I wanted to see you, Q," she says, but her voice cracks and Quinn can see her fists curl. "I haven't seen you in forever."

So Quinn attacks, the only way she's ever known Santana to truly respond to anyone other than Brittany. "What the fuck happened?" she pushes, her voice steely.

Santana lets out a small, strangled sob; all but physically collapsing on Quinn's worn out couch.

Quinn doesn't rush to her side, she just walks very quickly and she's there, rubbing Santana's back and pulling a quilt over her. A stray tanned hand knocks over a glass of water onto one of Quinn's books, but she doesn't care. "What happened?"

"New York is just…killing me," she says finally, lying on her back and looking up at Quinn and letting her see, for once, just how much of a beating she's taken.

Quinn inhales with a whistle. "Shit. You look awful," she pauses, "not awful, awful, like you just look tired. What are you even doing, aye? Are Rachel and Kurt keeping you up all night with their singing?" she maunders, chewing her lip embarrassedly.

She's even more embarrassed when Santana sobs again at the mention of her roommates, her eyes rolling back in her head and looking to Quinn like they're almost dead. They're just dark, there's no hidden fire.

"Santana…what happened?"

"I got onto that course I wanted at New York University because my dad has a few contacts and I'm gay and Latina, but it kind of meant all my mom and dad's money went on tuition because my grades were never that good across the board so I had to get a job but I had a load of classes, so I'm like…" she pauses for breath, and Quinn holds her own in her lungs with anticipation. "A bartender, but it's kind of a sleazy place and I don't really get out of there until like, three, and then my first class is at nine and we still live half way across the fucking city…" she pauses again, and Quinn finds her eyes dropping with sadness. "Like, I'm not complaining because the tips are good and the girls I work with are all Midwestern chancers too, and I'm lucky to even have a job but –"

"You're only sleeping for three hours a night?" Quinn guesses, and Santana gives her a reluctant nod. "That's not healthy, even in New York…"

"And the nights I have off Kurt and Rachel always make me go to their shitty little bars with their shallow and shitty performing arts people and there's so many lesbians like you wouldn't believe it but they're all so…vapid and horrible, I just keep having stupid one night stands with girls who're just looking to add another point to their list of artistic experiences." She draws in a shaky breath, and Quinn's sympathy somewhat wavers. "And there's just so many rude people who literally do not give a shit about you and it's not even in a witty or halfway cynical way, it's just in a completely selfish and vaguely autistic way, you know?"

Quinn absorbs everything she hears, nodding slightly and taking Santana's hand. She squeezes it.

"But why are you _here_, now?" It's just a less obvious way of calling Santana on her bullshit. She's pleased at the way it comes out.

Her eyes tear up, and Santana shifts with some vague discomfort on the couch. "We had a huge fight," she almost wails, shutting her eyes tight.

"You and Hummelberry?"

"Yeah… I don't think they want me to live with them anymore," she lets out a low sigh, "if they ever actually did." Before Quinn can reply, Santana is sitting up and dramatically flailing her arms. Quinn is still confused, if anything. "I mean, of course they didn't!"

"Didn't…what?"

"Want me to move in! I've never seen Rent, I have no future plans and really loud sex, and I ruin the chakra of their rustic-ass apartment." She presses her hands to her heart melodramatically, and Quinn lets a smile ghost her lips. "And after what was said yesterday, I wouldn't be surprised if they never wanted to see me again." Her eyes fill with tears and Quinn pulls her into a hug, their first real contact since Valentine's Day.

"I'm sure they would…" Quinn comforts, her voice light and soothing. She pulls away from the hug, holding Santana at arm's length. "Wait. What was said? You can be quite…cutting…"

"It was even that bad," Santana spits, a shadow of her old indignation battling through her tiredness and her overwhelming upset. "I said to Rachel that she looked like Barbra Streisand and it wasn't a compliment, and I told Kurt that I didn't like his stupid eyes because they made me feel like I was always kicking a puppy whenever I told him he looked like an actual incandescent flame of gay…"

"Was it –"

"They genuinely literally just attacked me. Well, not literally. But there were like twenty stupid theatre knobs coming over to watch some Evita marathon and they basically 'kicked me and my lewd, uneducated comments' out for the night and we just had a huge argument, all three of us," she finishes dismally, almost looking at Quinn for approval. "I fucking hate theatre!"

"Wow. That was quite," Quinn takes a deep breath, "impressive. If I didn't know better, I would say Kurt and Rachel were rubbing off on you. And that perhaps you were being a bit melodramatic about your fight, and that you've probably ignored dozens of calls and text messages from Rachel apologising and asking how you are."

Santana ignores her, tutting and yawning.

She might be a bit of a dick at times, but Quinn can see that an argument with Kurt and Rachel had simply catalysed Santana's strangely insecure mind into tripping over her future, her present and probably her past, too; and she can see that she doesn't want to be alone.

"Stay there," she says, chewing her lip and retreating into her bedroom to retrieve a pair of pyjama shorts and a big flannel shirt for Santana to sleep in. She has to stay, of course she does.

She's pretty sure Santana calls her a prejudiced, closeted homophobe when she hands her the shirt (which she doesn't think makes much sense but rolls with anyway), but she's definitely sure that Santana whispers a thank you that speaks volumes before she settles herself down on the couch.

Quinn sighs, deeply. "You can't sleep there." Santana opens her mouth to protest, but Quinn cuts her off. "No ifs. It's really uncomfortable, and I have a double bed."

"Are you sure –"

"Get up before I change my mind."

Quinn taps out a text to Rachel, knowing that she's going to be quite worried and probably on the verge of calling the police to report Santana missing. _'She's with me,'_ she writes, _'I'll let you know what's going on tomorrow'._

Santana jumps up and across the room and into bed – she sleeps on the left side with Quinn – and gratefully pulls the covers over her head, slipping into Spanish as she murmurs a goodnight.

Quinn disappears to brush her teeth and get a couple of glasses of water, and Santana's asleep by the time she's back; leaving her to lie awake wondering what the fuck was going on and why the room was suddenly so hot.

* * *

"I know you're watching me." Santana opens one eyelid in the blackness of the room, shifting her body to face Quinn's. "It's my psychic Mexican slash Dominican third eye." It's almost three in the morning, so the moon is high in the night sky and the stars are all the way up there lighting up in bizarre constellations which, to Quinn, change every time you look at them.

"I'm just…how long have you been awake?"

"A while. I can't shut my mind up, you know?"

"I'm just worried, Santana," Quinn finishes, and the darkness between them swells and moves like a push of wind. "You're kind of…broken?" she offers lamely, immediately regretting her choice of when Santana snorts.

But there's no malice in it, and in a way, Quinn would prefer it if there were. "Whatever. It'll be okay," Santana says flatly, not reassuring herself or Quinn in the slightest. "I'm sorry, Q."

Quinn takes her time with her response, tasting the words in her mouth. "For what?" she asks quietly. "For what?"

"Uh…being here?"

"Please," Quinn scoffs. "I don't mind you so much, you know. And my door is always open. Well, my hallway." She smiles weakly, and Santana shuffles closer to her under the duvet. "And I'm happy you felt you could, like…come to me, I guess. I know we don't say it much, but –"

Santana interrupts her, almost with a laugh. "No, no, no. None of that, Q. My heart might actually explode."

"Oh, god, shut up? You're one of _them _now."

"One of what?"

"A theatrical…" Quinn searches for the right word, gesticulating in the darkness.

Santana finds it. "Tosser?"

"Yeah," Quinn says, exhaling with a slight giggle.

"Fuck you, Fabray," Santana responds predictably. "Fuck you."

Quinn knocks Santana in the side and as a consequence moves a little closer, so they're sharing body heat. It's no big deal. They've done it loads of times, at messy parties' sophomore year when there were hardly any beds and never any blankets and they would cuddle for warmth.

"I'm only joking. So how actually is New York? Like, what do you do? How's Hummelberry, really?"

Santana hums, thinking. "Um, it's actually pretty amazing. I actually kind of love living with Rachel and Kurt, like every day is genuinely an absolute experience. Kurt brings some freaks home, I can tell you." She chuckles nostalgically, and Quinn feels a strange sense of pride. "It's just a lot to handle, I'm kind of tired. Small fish, you know? It's like me and a million other dreamers. It's really fucking weird." Santana shifts her body to bend against Quinn's. "You can literally see the people who arrived with a hundred bucks and a guitar thinking they were something special, you can kind of see the disappointment in their eyes when they ask you to help them cheat through the subway station."

She laughs hollowly, both of them aware of the unspoken, lingering question in the room – isn't that you? Quinn saw it. Santana must see it every morning when she looks in the mirror.

"I mean, I saw it the first couple of days I was wandering around trying to work out what the fuck I was going to do with myself. You can see it, you can just tell. And when you go to bars and there's _that _girl in her mid-twenties dancing on a table and encouraging dirty old men to feel her up, you can just tell she got off a plane from fucking middle-earth because she got a couple of prizes for singing or a couple of million views on Youtube…"

Quinn raises an eyebrow and blows out a puff of air. "Wow. Jaded much?"

"Please, I still love it. It's like a wonderful collection of freaks; I was jaded before I got there. I just realised how much I needed on that course at NYU, that's all. I'll do a couple of classes at NY fucking ADA if I can, but I could be a pretty damn good lawyer, right?"

"You know you can't just insult people?"

"I know. Smartass," Santana blows a raspberry, and Quinn flicks her arm with her fingernail.

Goosebumps spread up Santana arm, and she does her best to ignore them.

"So, how's Yale?" she continues, "The campus is pretty impressive. I'm sure I'll appreciate it more when it's not half ten and foggy or whatever, but I can tell it's no Lima Heights Community College." She nods her head firmly; her special 'proud-of-my-roots' nod. "Joined any more lesbian sororities?"

Quinn doesn't rise to it. "Well, you'll have to wait and see." She moves on before Santana can question her, smirking to herself. "It's good, I mean, yeah. It's good. I miss everyone though, and everything, kind of. It's like I'm moving on up or whatever but there's like a little bit of me that kind of longs for all that irresponsible bliss we had going on only last year. I sometimes feel like I'm out of my depth, you know?"

Santana tuts, loudly, and Quinn feels the body beside her shake. "Quinn. You are quite literally destined for greatness, in whatever the fuck you do. You just need to believe it." She reinforces her point with a sharp prod to Quinn's chest.

"I've always loved your eloquence."

"Fuck off," Santana snaps, turning over dramatically in bed and flipping Quinn a two fingered salute.

"Hey," Quinn bleats, her voice suddenly her perfected hybrid of whiny and cute and pleading. "Hey, come back."

She can hear Santana laugh and scoots over behind her, pressing her whole body to fit Santana's and hooking her arms around Santana's chest and her own legs around Santana's legs under the covers.

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey," she says into Santana's ear, her breath hot and tickling Santana's cheek. "Be my friend."

Quinn can feel Santana's smile, and see the dimples she tried so desperately to hide in the slit of light from the window. "No. We're over."

Quinn pulls her closer, grinning annoyingly and splaying her fingers over Santana's folded arms. "Please."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"Best friends?"

"No."

"Friends?"

"Not even at all, in the slightest."

Quinn tightens her grip and Santana huffs, feigning irritation.

"Love me?"

"Never."

"Hug me back?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Kiss me?"

Santana starts, her mouth hanging open. "Huh?"

"I can read you like a book, Ana. Now kiss me, because I did it first last time," Quinn says simply, her eyes twinkling as she stares at Santana in the dark.

"Right," Santana leans up on one elbow, pondering, smiling. "Well, that makes sense."

"It does, doesn't it?" Quinn almost sings, leaning up to mirror Santana.

"Are you ready for this?"

"Am I –"

Quinn's cocky statement is cut off in part by Santana's lips crashing against her own in a different kiss to the one they shared on Valentine's Day underneath an old oak table; and in part by the fact that she's actually rendered speechless.

She feels it, almost, feels it in her stomach burning like a hot ball of passion.

She felt something last time, but it was mainly drunk and fizzy and experimental and crazy.

This is different, and Santana feels it too.

They ignore it; of course, because they can and they want to and they can talk about it in the morning. Because they have each other, but they've got tonight, too.

* * *

Quinn wakes up with a faceful of dark hair which smells very lightly of apples, and her arms wrapped around a sleeping Santana, their bodies bent in two perfectly fitting S-shapes underneath the duvet.

She decides that she'll get up in half an hour, make some coffee and heat some croissants and bring her creation to Santana in bed, and they can talk laid side-by-side until Santana has to go back to New York and Quinn has to go to her afternoon class.

And she decides that when they say goodbye, she'll kiss her on the lips and see whether or not Santana kisses her back.

Because maybe she wants to see if they can be something, the sort of something that shares baths and goes out for meals and Skypes every evening; and she'll not be scared.

* * *

**thank you for reading! review, post wherever, do whatever, i love it all. i hope you liked it, of course, and i hope 4x14 goes a little like my own lil headcanon. (fingers crossed)(but i sadly am not holding my breath)**


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